My Billionaire Fiancé Is A Lie

More than just a bottle of wine

Leila's POV

The party screamed extravagance, the kind that made your pulse stutter because you were afraid to breathe too loudly, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your entire year's salary.

And there I was, clutching my modestly wrapped bottle of wine like it was a sacred offering.

Julia Watson Anderson's birthday bash.

Billionaire heiress, socialite, Luca's darling mother. She probably had enough diamonds to pave her driveway. And here I was with a bottle of wine I wasn't even sure she liked. Red, because Zara said red felt more "mature." I didn't know what else to bring. What could you possibly give someone who could have anything at the snap of her manicured fingers?

I felt ridiculous, my little gift heavy in my hand as I watched the room swirl with designer gowns and champagne flutes. People here moved like they belonged, A-list celebrities, Billionaires, powerful connected people in general. Heads tilted just so, laughter light and practiced, a performance of grace.

And me? I was drifting. Smiling awkwardly when eyes lingered on me too long, pretending not to notice the whispers, the pointed stares.

That's her. The girl from the gala. The charity scandal one. Luca's- whatever she is.

Their eyes said everything their lips didn't.

My chest tightened. I needed air.

I slipped through the crowd, weaving between bodies perfumed with expensive fragrances, until I found the balcony doors. The cool night air hit my face like a blessing. Darkness stretched out across the Anderson estate, the city lights winking faintly beyond. Out here, it was quieter, the hum of the party muffled.

I leaned against the railing, trying to remind myself why I was here. For Luca. For the role. For Kellan. Not to actually belong.

I was still gathering the nerve to reenter when a voice cut through the silence.

"Not quite your scene, huh?" I spun around.

A man was leaning against the far end of the balcony, half in shadow, a drink swirling lazily in his hand. His suit fit perfectly, the kind of cut you knew was custom, but his posture was relaxed, almost careless. His hair was slightly tousled, his jawline sharper in the low light.

Philip Watson.

I remembered catching his name during one of those whispered introductions earlier, Luca's cousin. Older. Quieter. Somehow overlooked despite how...well, magnetic he looked now.

"I..." I fumbled, clutching the wine bottle like an i***t. "Was it that obvious?"

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "A little. But don't worry. You're not the first person to feel out of place here. And you won't be the last."

Something about the way he said it—dry but kind—made me relax. I joined him at the railing.

"Let me guess," he said, tilting his glass toward the ballroom inside. "Half the room looked at you like you didn't deserve to breathe the same air, right?"

I laughed, startled. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only because I've lived it," he said simply. "You'd be surprised. Not all of us enjoy the same glitter-coated bubble, some of us want to enjoy the simple things of life."

I looked at him properly then, really looked. He was older than Luca, that much was clear. Late twenties, maybe? There was a steadiness in his gaze, a kind of humor that didn't feel cruel. It was, refreshing.

I found myself holding up the bottle of wine.

"Speaking of bubbles—I brought this. As a gift. For Julia."

Philip's eyes sparkled with amusement. "A bottle of wine? Brave. Thoughtful, though. Better than the diamond-studded nonsense most people throw at her."

I groaned. "She's going to hate it, isn't she?"

"Probably," he said without hesitation. Then his lips twitched. "But that's not your problem, is it? You showed up. You tried. The rest is noise."

I laughed again, the tension in my chest easing. We fell into a rhythm easily, leaning against the railing and talking like we'd known each other longer than a handful of minutes.

"You ever notice," Philip said, swirling his drink, "that these events are basically just costumes? Everyone's playing a role, pretending they're not silently dying inside."

I blinked. "Yes. That's exactly how I feel right now. Like I'm in a play where I don't know my lines."

He grinned. "Then improvise. That's what I do. Smile, nod, pretend you care about someone's new yacht."

I covered my mouth to stifle my laugh. "You're terrible."

"And you're too honest." He tilted his head, studying me. "It's rare here. Refreshing."

The sincerity in his voice made my cheeks warm.

Somewhere in the distance, music swelled. The night air grew cooler, brushing against my backless dress, and I shivered slightly. Philip noticed, shrugging out of his jacket.

"Here."

I blinked. "No, I can't—"

"Take it," he said, draping it over my shoulders before I could argue. His touch was brief, polite, but it lingered in a way that made me aware of just how close he stood.

We settled into a kind of easy banter, drifting from topic to topic. Somehow, we landed on TV shows.

"Okay," Philip said, eyes narrowing playfully, "The Vampire Diaries. Damon or Stefan?"

I gasped. "You watch that?"

"Guilty." He smirked. "Now answer the question."

"Damon, obviously," I said without hesitation.

"Brooding, witty, flawed, it is not even a contest."

Philip groaned dramatically. "No, no, no. Stefan was the real deal. Loyal. Reliable. The type who doesn't burn your life down just because he's having a bad day."

"Reliable?" I scoffed. "Reliable is boring. Damon grew. He changed."

"Changed?" Philip shot me a look. "He killed people for fun!"

I grinned, feeling lighter than I had all evening. "Okay, but what about Caroline? She went from shallow to responsible, brave, dependable. She's the real star of the show."

Philip leaned closer, eyes twinkling. "Wrong again. Bonnie carried that entire show. Without her, everyone would've been dead five times over."

"Caroline!" I insisted, jabbing a finger at him.

"Bonnie!"

We both burst out laughing, the kind of laughter that left me breathless, clutching my side. For a few golden minutes, the world faded, the whispers, the judgment, the suffocating weight of being "Luca Anderson's fiancée." None of it mattered. It was just Philip and me on that balcony, arguing about fictional vampires like it was the most important debate in the world.

And then,

A throat cleared behind us.

The laughter died instantly.

I turned, and there he was. Luca.

He stood in the doorway, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. He wasn't smiling. Not even close.

"Leila Monroe." His voice was low, edged with something I couldn't place. His gaze flicked to Philip, then back to me, lingering too long on the way I was still wrapped in his cousin's jacket.

The air shifted. Heavy. Electric.

"It's time to introduce you to my parents," Luca said finally, his tone clipped.

I swallowed, my heart suddenly racing for all the wrong reasons.

Philip straightened casually, but I could feel the unspoken tension crackling between them. "We were just talking," he said lightly, though his eyes said more.

Luca didn't look at him again. He stepped forward, closing the space between us. Without asking, his hand pressed against the exposed curve of my back, warm and firm, guiding me away from the balcony.

I stumbled slightly at the contact, my heart twisting with confusion. The warmth I'd felt with Philip, a natural, easy warmth evaporated into something else entirely.

As Luca led me back inside, the jacket slipping from my shoulders, I glanced back once.

Philip was still standing there, his expression unreadable, his glass half-raised like he'd just remembered he was supposed to be drinking.

For the first time that night, I didn't feel invisible.

Thanks to Philips Watson

_

I don't think I had ever felt this small in my life.

Standing in front of the Watson-Anderson estate was like staring up at a palace plucked straight out of a fairytale—if fairytales were dripping in old money, intimidating power, and the kind of quiet judgment that made you straighten your spine without even realizing it.

The house wasn't just big. It was enormous. A sprawling palace with glistening glass towers, columns carved with precision, chandeliers that could bankrupt three neighborhoods, and gardens so manicured they looked like paintings. Cars lined the front like a showroom—sleek black ones mostly, the kind that whispered wealth rather than shouted it.

And inside? Chaos wrapped in elegance.

Hundreds of staff fluttered around, their black-and-white uniforms blurring together as they carried trays of champagne, adjusted silk drapes, polished already shining marble floors, and directed guests who didn't need directing. A literal army of maids, butlers, event planners, and security swarmed everywhere, all for one woman's birthday.

Julia Watson Anderson.

I already knew her reputation before stepping foot here. A hospitality mogul. She owned half the luxury hotels and restaurants across the country, and the other half probably wished she did. And from the way the staff scurried when she so much as lifted her glass, she was every bit the queen they said she was.

Tonight, she was also my potential mother-in-law.

My stomach twisted just thinking about it.

I smoothed down the emerald-green gown Luca's stylists had dressed me in. It was sleek, fitted at the waist, with a daring slit that made me feel a little braver than I was. My hair was swept back in waves, and diamond-drop earrings sparkled against my neck. I looked expensive—thankfully. But in my hands was a single gift that made me feel cheap.

A bottle of wine.

Not even one of those ridiculously rare vintages that billionaires casually bid on at auctions. Just a bottle I thought Julia might appreciate. But as I watched a guest roll up with a diamond-studded clutch holding keys to a new Bentley—her "gift"—I wanted to melt into the marble floor.

The grand ballroom stretched before me, shimmering under towers of chandeliers. Music floated in the air from a live orchestra at the corner. A cake taller than me—eight tiers, each decorated with edible gold and crystal sugar—stood in the center like a monument. Guests in glittering gowns and tuxedos laughed and sipped champagne, most of them already looking at me with barely concealed curiosity. Or maybe it was judgment. I couldn't tell.

The charity gala scandal still followed me like a shadow. I felt it in the stares, the whispers.

I tried not to shrink. Instead.

Julia stood near the center of the room, regal and radiant. She looked glamorous, sharp, and terrifyingly observant. Her gown was silver and dramatic, with diamonds glittering at her wrists and neck. She was laughing at something a guest said, her posture perfect, her smile practiced.

And beside her was a man who needed no introduction.

George Anderson. Luca's father. The kind of man who commanded a room without ever needing to raise his voice. His presence was suffocating. Broad shoulders, sharp suit, and eyes that looked like they'd cut through steel.

He was powerful, unflinching, terrifying.

Beside Julia stood another woman, softer in her stance but equally dazzling. Lilian Watson. Julia's younger sister, Luca's aunt and Philip’s Mom and I know this because I did my assignment by learning about the family tree if I wanted to sell my lie to them.

She was an artist, and it showed in her aura. Her dress was bold, with splashes of color that no one else would dare wear, and she carried herself with the air of someone who lived life on her own terms. Meeting her felt like standing in front of living art.

And me? I was the outsider holding a bottle of wine.

"Stop fidgeting."

I nearly jumped when Luca's voice brushed against my ear.

"You're late," I whispered, though relief washed through me.

"You're early," he countered, his hand finding the small of my back as if it belonged there. "Ready?"

"Not remotely."

His lips curved the slightest bit, almost amused, before he began leading me toward the cluster of Anderson royalty. Every step made my pulse thunder louder.

As we approached, Julia's eyes flicked over me like a laser scan. Head to toe. Assessing. Measuring. Her smile never faltered, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Mother," Luca said smoothly, "Father. Aunt Lilian. Meet Leila Monroe."

Julia's diamond smile widened, though I could tell she was already cataloguing everything about me.

"So this is the girl."

Her voice was velvet wrapped around steel. She extended her hand, and I placed mine in it, praying my palm wasn't sweaty.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. Anderson."

"Julia, darling. Everyone calls me Julia."

She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "You're very pretty. Luca's always had good taste."

I couldn't tell if it was a compliment or a veiled threat.

George's eyes were worse. Piercing. Calculating. He didn't extend his hand. Instead, he nodded once, like I was some acquisition being evaluated.

"Monroe, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Brooklyn."

His brow arched, though nothing else in his expression shifted. "Brooklyn," he repeated, as if the word itself were foreign. "Interesting."

Julia's smile returned, sharper this time. "And what do you do, Leila? For work?"

The question was simple, but the weight behind it made me stumble for half a second.

"I... I work with Luca," I managed. "I've been helping him with events and investor relations."

George hummed, unimpressed or maybe just deliberately intimidating. "Marcus Everleigh spoke highly of you," he said finally.

The relief that flooded me was immediate. Until Julia leaned in slightly, her gaze narrowing just enough to unsettle me.

"Words are one thing, darling. Impressions are another. Don't you agree?"

I nodded quickly, though inside I was screaming.

For the next half hour, it was question after question. About my family, about my brother, about my education, about Brooklyn, about how I handled pressure. Julia asked with a smile that made it impossible to tell if she liked me or wanted to gut me.

George asked like he was conducting a board meeting.

Lilian was kinder, interjecting here and there to soften the blows, but even she studied me like I was a canvas she wasn't sure deserved her brush.

By the end of it, my head spun.

It had been easy lying to Marcus Everleigh. Flash a smile, sprinkle charm, play the part. But Julia and George? They weren't Marcus. They were terrifying, sharp, relentless. They saw through facades. And no matter how confident I tried to look, I knew—I'd barely survived tonight.

As Luca led me away from them toward another cluster of guests, I exhaled shakily.

"You did well," he murmured.

"Well?" I hissed. "I feel like I just got interrogated by the FBI."

His lips twitched again, but his eyes stayed unreadable. "Welcome to my family."

I clutched the bottle of wine tighter, suddenly wishing I'd brought a Bentley instead.

Next time, I promised myself, I'd come prepared.

Because surviving George and Julia Anderson wasn't going to be easy.

And if I was going to stay in this game, I needed to bring more than just a bottle of wine.